Mercy
by lionesseyes13
Summary: Mark Johnson struggles to deal with the aftermath of the game in Norway. Oneshot featuring Mark, Herb, Rob, and Coach Patrick.


"_Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy."—William Shakespeare, __**Timon of Athens**_

Mercy

Mark Johnson, still sticky with sweat despite the two cold showers—one in the locker room and one in the hotel room he shared with Rob McClanahan—massaged his aching legs, wondering when his roommate would return with the bucket of ice from the dispenser down the hallway. Glancing impatiently at the clock on the maple nightstand, he saw that Rob had already been gone for five minutes, which, in Mark's opinion, was too blasted long, especially considering the dispenser was located about fifty yards away near the elevator bank, not in New Zealand.

With a deep sigh, Mark sagged against his stack of pillows and reminded himself sternly that it was Herb Brooks he was angry at, not Rob. After all, the other young man's muscles had to be as seized up with lactic acid as Mark's were, so his progress down the corridor would likely resemble a hobble more than a jaunty jog. Besides, the rest of their team would have formed a line for ice at the dispenser, because they had all been put through a torturing marathon of Herbies that Mark would have been prepared to testify in a court of law had violated Constitutional provisos regulating cruel and unusual punishment.

Then again, in Norway, a group of American college boys didn't have any rights under the Constitution, since they weren't on US soil. Certainly, there was nothing legal to prevent Herb from forcing his team to skate sprints until they were wheezing, vomiting, and collapsing on the ice, convinced that they were going to die on a frigid Oslo rink a thousand miles from their families.

Closing his eyes to revisit a scene that he knew would always be seared in his heart and burned into his brain, Mark remembered what it was like to be soaked in his own sweat, knowing that there would never be a water break called so he could replace some of the moisture streaming out of his pores, and retching up between whistles all the water he had drank what had felt like a century ago when he had been resting on the bench between shifts in the game against Norway. He recalled what it was like to have to think about standing, instead of just doing it naturally, to have to clutch a hockey stick as though it were a cane, and to sink against the blessedly cool ice during the brief pauses between sprints, trying to absorb some strength and comfort from its hard surface. He felt the pain of every ragged pant tearing out of his lungs, and the agony of every frenzied heartbeat, each one of which he had feared would herald a heart attack.

Once again, it seemed as though he would never leave that Norway arena—as if he had never done anything except skate Herbies there and never would do anything more than skate Herbies there. Even when he died he would spend eternity skating Herbies as punishment for his sins, and the fact that he would perish doing Herbies was as inevitable a result as eating was for the favored other people on Earth when they sat down for dinner (because Mark would never eat or sit down, and neither would his teammates).

Mark's life cycle wouldn't be defined by anything as normal as meals, nights, and days, but rather by the sharp command _"Again"_ and the shrill whistle blow that always followed it a second later. Mark hated the word _"Again," _which often felt like it was the only word that he knew because it was the only one he needed to understand to fulfill his apparent purpose in life, since it announced the death another part of his being. That had been scary not because he could feel himself slipping away piece by breathless piece, but because he welcomed the release as his weary soul was gradually freed from his fatigued body. Once, in another lifetime before he had started skating Herbies after tying with Norway, Mark had been afraid of death, but that fear, like so much of Mark, had perished on the ice while he was doing sprints that in any other sport would have been aptly dubbed suicides.

It had been this disconcerting realization that Herb Brooks had crushed his body and soul so much that he saw even death as a refuge that had driven Mark to smash his stick against the glass around the arena when Herb had finally called an end to the torment masquerading as conditioning. The stick had shattered with a satisfying snap, and all of Mark's teammates had stared at him as if he had just admitted to being an imposter. They couldn't believe that mild-mannered Mark Johnson had broken his stick in a fit of rage and rebellion, but they didn't understand, because he didn't want them to, that part of the reason he kept himself so quiet and calm all the time was that he recognized that he had a nasty temper when he lost his composure.

Herb, of course, had a terrible temper, too, and he had responded to Mark's stick smashing with all the graciousness of a challenged alpha wolf, screaming, "If I ever see a kid hit a stick on the boards again, I'll skate you till you die!" Then, he had ranted on, making it clear that if the boys did not play better in the following day's game against Norway, they would be skating Herbies to within an inch of their lives again.

Herb, Mark thought bitterly for what had to be the millionth time since Olympic training started, was a lunatic who possessed less compassion than a nuclear warhead. The team had flown into Norway this morning and had barely collected their luggage from the carousels at the airport before they were in the rink, practicing.

There had been no time to recover from jet lag before their game tonight, so, of course, their performance had been a bit lackluster, and they had been more interested in checking out foreign girls and comparing potential NHL contracts than in hammering a team they could tie without exerting any real effort.

Sure, Mark would have found it hard to respect a coach that didn't re-establish discipline after witnessing the lackadaisical play that had defined tonight's game with Norway, but a handful of Herbies coupled with a stern warning that they'd be doing a lot more if their performance didn't improve significantly in the next day's game would have been enough to make Herb's point. He didn't need to sledgehammer every lesson into his players' heads, because even the Coneheads, who spent their lives on a higher plane that rarely intersected with reality, weren't stupid so much as lost in their own little worlds.

Mark wanted to call his father to complain about what unquestionably had been the worst day of his life, but he was too lazy to calculate what time it would be in Madison, he didn't want to be the ignorant American tourist who couldn't figure out how many Norwegian coins to dump into the pay phone slot in the lobby, and he knew that Dad would probably flip out at him once he had related his sob story.

Mark's father, referred to by most connoisseurs of college hockey as Badger Bob, was coach for the University of Wisconsin team, and Herb Brooks and Badger Bob got along about as well as France and England had during the Hundred Years' War. After the tryouts, Mark's dad had emphasized in just about every phone call to his son that he wasn't to do anything that might provide Brooks with an excuse to send him home. Now Mark had done just that, because smashing his stick indicated poor discipline, bad sportsmanship, and about a hundred other qualities nobody would want in a player on their team. When Herb sent him home, his father would probably kill him, so Mark should just buy himself a tombstone and write all his apologies and explanations on it.

Mark was dragged out of his melancholy musing when the door to the hotel room swung open. Stepping inside with a steel bucket filled with ice, Rob announced, "I'm back."

"Good," Mark muttered peevishly. "I was about to send out a search party. Did you go via Greenland?"

"I'm sorry if I inconvenienced you," replied Rob in a cold tone that conveyed more efficiently than words could have that he thought Mark should be the one apologizing for being a whiny jerk. Plunking the bucket onto the carpet between their beds, Rob went on even more sarcastically, "I see now that I should have just shoved my way through the throng of our teammates waiting to get ice from the dispenser, saying that MVP Magic Mark needs his ice, so his slave has to get it immediately. I won't make the same mistake again. I promise."

Watching the almost euphoric expression that flooded Rob's face as the left winger dunked his feet into the bucket of ice, Mark bit his lip. Now that the flush of being overworked and overheated had left Rob's cheeks, they were ashen with exhaustion and pain. Mark's stomach knotted as he thought that if Robbie McClanahan, one of the fastest skaters Mark had ever met, which gave him more time to catch his breath on the line before Herbies, looked as if he had just become a ghost, the other boys on the team must be even worse off.

"I apologize for being obnoxious," Mark said, slipping his feet into the bucket, and feeling immensely grateful that both he and his roommate were slight and had small feet, so they could share a bucket of ice instead of taking turns. He didn't want to get into an argument with Rob, especially not when they were both more dead than alive.

Since the first day of training when they had been assigned to room together, the two of them had gotten along really well. Rob might have been a bit of a neat freak who spent an almost unnatural amount of time ensuring that all of his clothes were folded perfectly in their drawers (and they would never be anywhere else unless he was wearing them), but that was a relatively small price to pay for him not cluttering Mark's side of the room with his personal detritus.

Rob didn't snore, sleep talk, or sleep walk. He was friendly—ready to give or take a joke—but he didn't act as though every silence had to be filled instantly with words. Rob was willing to give encouragement when he thought that Mark needed it, but he also let Mark have the space he needed to re-charge in his head with his own thoughts. Mark suspected that Rob did this because he also required some quiet time to organize his own mind.

Some players, like Rizzo, might have found it energizing to be around people in a loud arena all day, but for others, like Mark and Rob, it got draining. Sometimes, Mark thought that it was unfair that extroverts like Rizzo were always thought of as the ones who invigorated a team when, in Mark's experience, they were the ones who sapped the energy that the introverts created naturally.

Mark could never have survived training under a coach who shouted as much as Herb did if he had been forced to room with an extrovert who would not stop talking until the lights were switched off, so he would always be glad that McClanahan and Johnson appeared near one another in the alphabet.

At times, they were so similar it was scary. They were both short and slender for hockey players, both of them trying to pass as five feet ten instead of five feet nine. They were reserved, but they also were very driven and competitive, defined by a quiet tenacity and intensity. On and off the ice, they understood each other so well, and Mark didn't want a rift to develop between them, especially not when he was abruptly feeling the compulsion to confide his many woes in a friend.

"I'm just so afraid that Herb is going to cut me because of my little temper tantrum tonight," Mark admitted, staring into the mirror hanging from the opposite, muted blue wall, and wishing that his eyes didn't look so wet. The puffy and red face look wasn't attractive on anyone, including him."If I get the ax, I don't know exactly what my dad will say, but it won't be anything good."

"When we played against Wisconsin, I always thought that your dad seemed really optimistic and like he had a sense of fun, unlike Coach Brooks, who prides himself on his ability to bring misery to every situation, and who only knows fun by reputation, not by experience, as a dreadful entity that lowers the productivity of teams." Rob's forehead furrowed. "Is your dad _different_ behind closed doors?"

Mark didn't have to ask what Rob meant by different. He meant a shouter. A door slammer and a furniture thrower. Someone who would scream in your face and push you to the breaking point at every opportunity. Somebody who forever toed (or crossed) the line separating coaching and abuse. In other words, a person like Herb Brooks.

"Nah. He really is that enthusiastic and happy all the time." Mark smiled to assure Rob that he absolutely had never suffered any form of abuse from his father. At this point, he was no longer offended by people doubting that his father could really be upbeat and enthusiastic almost every moment of every day, which, in its own way, was kind of overwhelming to an introvert like Mark. "It's just—he's my dad, you know. He loves me and wants what's best for me. That's why he gets annoyed when I sabotage my own dreams by doing something he specifically told me not to do like, to use a random example, antagonize Herb Brooks and get myself thrown off the Olympic team. I bet your father would yell at you, too, if you did something stupid he repeatedly advised against, and you wouldn't be scared of him; you'd just be upset that you disappointed him."

"Maybe." Rob flashed a mischievous grin. "But my father is a lawyer, so he normally doesn't need to shout to make my brothers and me feel like the world's worst sons. He just has to ask us a few innocent-sounding questions that are always traps to get us to admit how horrible whatever we just did was."

Mark might have chuckled at this, but he couldn't bring himself to experience any real amusement when he was still trying to not cry as he imagined Herb kicking him off the team, a scene that even the most incompetent psychic could see in his currently bleak future.

Accurately reading the despair on Mark's face, Rob added bracingly, "None of this matters, though. Your father isn't going to have to yell at you, because you aren't getting thrown off this team any time before palm trees grow in Antarctica. You're the team's top scorer, for heaven's sake. If anyone is safe from the cut, it's you, so stop making lesser mortals like me nervous by anguishing over whether you'll make the team, because if you aren't good enough to go to the Olympics, I probably can't get onto the roster of a PeeWee team."

"Your dad hasn't been Herb Brooks' biggest rival for years," countered Mark dully, shaking his head. "From the beginning, I think Herb's been waiting for me to mess up, so that he would have a reason to ship me back to Wisconsin like the unwanted baggage I am. I gave him that excuse tonight when I broke my stick. The game is over now. I have no more ace to play."

"I've played under Herb for four years, and what you describe isn't his style." Rob's eyes widened earnestly. "He will do whatever it takes to win, and cutting the best player on a team because of a history of bad blood with the player's father is a losing tactic, not a winning one. Herb would rather medal with Bob Johnson's son than lose one without him, I guarantee that."

"How can you be sure that winning an Olympic medal is more important than another victory in his war with my dad?" asked Mark, not encouraged by Rob's attempt at reassurance, because, as far as he was concerned, nobody ever really knew Herb Brooks or what seemingly incongruous decision he would make next.

"Has he ever actually brought up his rivalry with your dad to you?" pressed Rob, arching an eyebrow. "I can't remember him ever even alluding to it when I was in earshot."

"He hasn't mentioned it at all, and, when he does correct me, he doesn't insult me like he does everyone else." Mark bit his lip, because he feared that, with a coach as quick to poke holes in players' self-esteem as Herb Brooks this was stronger evidence of a vendetta against him than the most scathing insult. "He probably just didn't want to make it seem like he had anything personal against me, so that when I did mess up, he could say that he was being purely professional when he sent me packing."

"That's not Herb." Rob shook his head. "If he's got a problem with you, he'll bring it up in the rudest and most hurtful way possible. He won't be silent or diplomatic about it. They don't teach charm or tact in the East Side of St. Paul where he grew up, you see. Where he's from, you just say whatever you want wherever you want to whomever you want."

"If you say so." Mark's skeptical tone made it clear that he thought Rob was as woefully wrong as the governments in Europe that had believed Hitler would just be content with annexing Austria.

"I do." Rob's voice was as firm as Mark's had been dubious. "At the U, if we were going to play against you Wisconsin boys, a lot of Herb's pre-game instruction was about strategies to try to neutralize you, Mark Johnson, so you'd be less of a factor. If he thought you were a worthy threat then, he'll want you as an ally now. He's practical enough to turn his weakness into his strength, if you catch my drift."

"You're making stuff up to make me feel better." Blushing to the roots of his hair, Mark scowled. "I'm not dumb enough to fall for your lies, Robbie."

"Remember that playoff series where you centered two lines better than most players could one because a teammates of yours was injured?" Rob demanded, and, when Mark nodded, went on in a distinctly smug fashion, "That's too crazy for me to make up, and it definitely impressed Herb."

"Well, I didn't think it was so spectacular, since I only did what I had to do," mumbled Mark, embarrassed to realize that he could be perceived as fishing for compliments, something that he despised other people for doing. Trying to change the subject before the night was spent doing nothing more than building up his fallen ego, he added, "Anyway, I can't believe that Herb, after skating us within an inch of our lives, threatened to skate us to death if any of us ever smashed our sticks again. That was pretty scary, because, you know, I would have died tonight just to show him _something_—I don't know what exactly, but something."

"That's not surprising." Rob smirked. "This is a team full of people who would cut off their noses to spite their faces and then insist that their faces look better without the blobs in the middle."

"Yeah, and I really just wanted a Desdemona moment." Mark could feel his lips twitching into a reluctant grin. "It would be amazing to come back from the dead and denounce my killer."

"Did you ever read _Othello _or even copy notes from a halfway intelligent classmate?" Snorting, Rob rolled his eyes. "The major plot point when Desdemona returns from the dead is that she won't blame her husband for her murder, even if she has to tell a lie that damns her own soul by saying that she committed suicide. If you're going to go all high-brow on me with literary references, make sure they're actually applicable to the situation."

"Do you honestly think that I had nothing better to do during eleventh-grade English class than listen to my ancient teacher yammer on about a play that was centuries older than even her?" retorted Mark with faux indignation. "There were squirrels scampering up trees and birds building nests that were about a thousand times more interesting to focus on."

"I just thought that, if you were so ignorant about Shakespeare, you wouldn't worm him into every day conversations to showcase your lack of knowledge." Now Rob was having difficulty speaking between surges of laughter.

"Well, you thought wrong." Mark stuck out his tongue. "And I'll show you who is ignorant when I pull out my pocket Shakespeare and find a truly devastating insult to fling at you."

"I quiver in fear." Rob pretended to shudder, and then their amusement ended too soon when a rap sounded on their door, which they kept ajar in case one of their more talkative teammates, such as Rizzo, wanted to visit to chat off their ears.

"Come in!" shouted Mark and Rob in unison, catching their breath.

When Coach Patrick stepped into the room, the last of their laughter faded in their throats, and they froze like rabbits that sensed they were about to be pounced upon by a wolf. Perhaps seeing their nervousness, Patrick chuckled and shook his head, commenting, "Boys, that bucket is supposed to be used for keeping drinks, not feet, cold."

"Oops. We're such stupid American tourists who just didn't know any better." Rob gasped in obviously feigned horror. "At least we're generous, stupid American tourists, so we'll leave a nice tip for them to give the bucket a deluxe cleaning after we're gone."

"Or maybe even enough money for them to treat themselves to a new bucket, but that's only if room service is excellent," put in Mark, discovering that Rob had managed to draw him into an oddly mischievous mood.

"Never let it be said that you boys aren't charitable," Coach Patrick remarked dryly. Then, sobering, he continued, his voice as heavy as a woolen blanket, "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Mark, but Herb wants a word with you in his room."

"Oh." Mark could feel his heart, thudding wildly, sink into his stomach. He had known, regardless of what Robbie had said to try to soothe him, that this moment was coming like an onrushing train, so why did his every nerve experience it as such a dreadful shock? There was, he supposed numbly, no accounting for the human mind and body—after all, instinctual reactions brought on by adrenaline highs were the reason he was about to be sent home with his head hanging in shame like a beaten stray dog. "Right."

Bullying his muscles into motion, Mark slid his feet out of the ice bucket, dried them off on the blanket on his bed, and slipped them into a pair of sandals. As he rose, his ankles and thighs yowling in protest, his eyes fixed on Rob's anxious face, and he tried to draw a morale boost from his roommate's whispered, "Good luck."

Thoroughly convinced that he would need more than good luck to survive his imminent interaction with Herb Brooks, Mark stepped out into the hallway. He was about to begin what he was sure would be his longest and most painful walk when Coach Patrick squeezed his shoulder, murmuring, "Mark, you're one of the most talented young hockey players I've ever met. Nothing anyone says or does will ever be able to change the fact that you're exceptional on ice."

"Thanks, Coach." Mark didn't have a clue how he managed to choke out the polite response through a mouth that had gone drier than the Sahara.

Then, feeling like a condemned prisoner marching to the gallows, he trudged down the corridor to Herb's room, every muscle in his body aching, especially his bleeding heart. After what felt like an eternity that provided him with infinite opportunities to examine his mistake with the hockey stick and exactly how much it would cost him, he arrived outside of Herb's room.

Steeling himself for the most crushing conversation of his life, Mark knocked on Herb's door with a trembling hand, and, as his knuckles hit the wood, tried not to think of the sound of his hockey stick smashing against the boards.

"Johnson." The instant he opened the door, Herb, without so much as a preliminary nod of greeting, ordered crisply, "Come in and shut the door after you."

Mark obeyed, and, once he had finished closing the door, found himself the recipient of Herb's iciest, most calculating stare. Swallowing, he thought that he would give all the money in his small bank account to know a fraction of what the coach who was currently looking down at him was thinking, but, since he wasn't a mind reader and he couldn't bear the suspense of waiting to be cut any longer, he did something he rarely did—break the silence by saying, "Coach, I'm sorry for smashing my stick against the glass. It showed poor discipline and bad sportsmanship—I know that, and I apologize."

_And I would never do anything like it again if you gave me a second chance_, Mark added inside his head, but he didn't dare to express the sentiment aloud, because he understood that, on the Olympic level, second tries were not handed out like candy corn on Halloween. The urge to cry was pricking at his eyes, and he blinked furiously, telling himself that he would not become a brat who wept when he apologized as if he were the victim of his own misbehavior.

"I realize you're sorry." Herb offered a terse nod, and Mark braced himself for a declaration that he would be even sorrier once he was cut, so he was thrown completely for a loop when his coach continued sharply, "I made my point, you made yours, and I gave my counterpoint to yours. That, as far as I'm concerned, can be the end of it, since I believe that we understand one another."

"We do," Mark assured him swiftly, nodding with all the eagerness he could muster, and wondering, as he felt his brain spinning in a million directions, if he was really going to escape the ax, after all.

"Good." Herb pressed his lips into a tight line. "Then perhaps we could move on to the future instead of living in the past like goddamn historians."

"Of course." Mark ducked his head, absorbing this stern admonishment to always focus on what was ahead, rather than behind, as he had sworn from the second he began Olympic training with Herb that he would do with all of Coach Brooks' harsh lessons.

Mark recognized that he was one of the few players who could say that he had been taught by Badger Bob and Herb Brooks, two of the most respected college coaches in the country, and he had no intention of letting the reservoir that was Herb Brooks' hockey knowledge go untapped. As long as he was training under Brooks, he would learn everything that he could from the cold, inscrutable man, because he didn't question that Herb was an excellent coach.

After being raised by Badger Bob, Mark had concluded that a successful coach was one who could win games—particularly important ones—and could prepare players for the challenges that inevitably would litter their futures. A quick glance at Herb's NCAA championship record—three rings in seven years—proved that he could win crucial games, and the boys who had played for him at the University of Minnesota all had an air about them that blared as loudly as any headline that they were confident that—whether working individually or in a team—they could overcome any obstacle hurled at them with the right combination of grit, creativity, and unswerving focus.

Before he had gotten close to the Minnesota boys, Mark had feared that they would be mentally unstable players waging perpetual wars against themselves and any newcomers for whatever scraps of approval and affection Herb deigned to mete out, but it had taken him less than a practice with the nine University of Minnesota players to recognize how off base his assumption had been. The Minnesota boys were as demonstrative as their coach was flinty: hugging one another encouragingly after good goals, clapping each other consolingly on the back or shoulders after poor plays, and nudging one another mockingly in the ribs when telling a joke. They were, Mark had discovered with astonishment, even more open with each other than the players on the famously enthusiastic Badger Bob's team.

Perhaps, Mark often thought, the boys from the University of Minnesota had needed to learn how to give one another the support and camaraderie they could never have found in Herb's distant, disciplinarian coaching. Still, there was no denying that, despite Coach Brooks' frigid and critical approach to dealing with his players, all the boys he had coached at the U were well-adjusted and able to sustain strong friendships in stressful situations. All the credit for this, of course, couldn't be given to Herb's coaching tactics, since a player had to possess a certain natural resiliency to rise to the Division I level, but Mark wasn't about to discount the influence of Herb Brooks on his players' mental toughness or the fact that all of them seemed to have figured out that hockey was a team sport, not an individual one.

"I brought you here because I wanted to talk about your role on this team, since you seem to be as useless at figuring it out as a lifeboat with a hole in its bottom." Herb glared at Mark, who quickly increased his attention on the conversation. "You may not have noticed it, but you are the heart of this team: the guy who makes it tick. When your game is on, everyone else's is, but when you decide that you're going to catch up on the sleep you didn't get on the plane instead of play hockey, everybody's performance gets shot to all hell."

"Are you seriously blaming me for the entire team's lackluster showing tonight?" demanded Mark, folding his arms across his chest as his eyes narrowed.

"If the helmet fits, then wear it," Herb snapped, jabbing a finger at Mark's chest.

"It doesn't, so I refuse to," retorted Mark, jaw clenched and blue eyes blazing. "You can cut me for breaking my stick against the boards tonight, and I won't even try to argue that you're kicking me off the team for personal instead of professional reasons, but I won't be your scapegoat for tonight's terrible game against Norway, because that's not fair."

"I thought that a quiet person might prove to be a better listener." Herb's glower grew even larger, so that it was positively terrifying. "I'm saying a lot of important things to you right now, but that I want to cut you isn't one of them, so I suggest you clear out your ears."

"My father is Badger Bob Johnson." Mark blinked and couldn't decide whether the gesture was more rooted in astonishment or in aggravation. "Of course you want to cut me."

"I'm glad that we both know who your father is." Herb snorted, and Mark felt an odd sense of release now that they were finally acknowledging the elephant in the corner. "But what I want to do is win a medal in a contest that is a lot bigger than Minnesota versus Wisconsin, or Badger Bob versus Herb Brooks."

"Are you saying that you don't care who my father is?" Mark felt as if somebody had moved a goal he had been aiming at all night, and now he didn't know where to shoot. It was incredible that Herb, who had such a big stick to hold over Mark's shoulders, was just going to relinquish it. As impossible as it seemed, Herb's policy of not mentioning Mark's father had not been a ploy to trick him into making a mistake of sufficient gravity to justify kicking him off the team. "Do you mean that you want to go to the Olympics with me?"

"I'm saying that I'm counting on you to be not only a player, but a leader on this team." Herb's gaze pierced into Mark's, and Mark lifted his chin.

"I won't let you or the team down again, Coach," he promised, vowing to himself that he would play for Herb Brooks with the same dedication that he did for his father, even if the two men were arch-rivals, because he could be a professional, too, and leave old enmities in the past for a chance at future Olympic glory.

"When you were on the ice with McClanahan, you actually looked like you were playing hockey for a short while, and when he was out with you, he was a little less pathetic to watch," Herb observed tartly, and Mark wondered, not for the first time since training had started, when Brooks would decide on his lines. The Coneheads were a unit, but that was mainly because any other forwards who tried to work with them on the ice tended to be instantly confused about where to position themselves, since the Coneheads communicated on a frequency nobody else's radar was attuned to. All the other forwards were constantly being treated as rats in experiments with various line combinations, and, when Mark had asked Rob if this was anything to be worried about, Rob had only shrugged and remarked that, at the U, Brooks changed lines on a dime, presumably so that none of his players got complacent. "Would you want him to be left winger on your starting line?"

"He's fast, he creates a lot of options, and we understand each other well on and off the ice." Mark grinned. "Yes, I'd like to be on a line with him."

"Then we'll test it out over the next few games," answered Herb briskly. "If it works, we'll find a right winger. Maybe Strobel or Silk. If it doesn't, I'll keep you and McClanahan separate."

"Got it," Mark replied, recognizing the typical hockey coach threat: make sure your line performs solidly, or else your line will be split up in an eye blink. Then, frowning, he asked, "Aren't you going to ask Rob if he wants to be on a line with me before you put him there?"

After all, it didn't seem fair that one of them should be asked, and the other one shouldn't. Being teammates, roommates, and linemates would mean that Mark and Rob would spend practically every moment (waking and sleeping) together, so it only was prudent, as far as Mark was concerned, to ensure that both parties felt comfortable with that level of constant contact. Just because Mark was, that didn't mean that Rob had to be, and Rob's opinion mattered to Mark, even if it didn't to Herb.

"I've known Rob McClanahan for more than four years now." Herb's face and tone were impassive. "He's stopped expecting to have any input on or understanding of my line combinations, but if he were asked his opinion about being on a line with you, he'd say that you two could create a lot of opportunities for one another. I don't need to ask what I already know."

That _did _sound like what Robbie would say if Herb had bothered to ask his opinion, and Mark, tilting his head sidewise as he tried for the millionth time to get the measure of Coach Brooks, found it odd that someone who was so detached from his players could understand so well how each one thought and reacted. Badger Bob, Mark determined, was clearly superior to Brooks at creating teams that loved him and would do anything to prove their dedication to him on the ice, but Brooks was better at sensing the differences between players and treating them accordingly. Mark made a mental note of this and filed it away in his brain in case, years down the line, he was ever crazy enough to go into coaching.

"Right." Mark nodded, although all he could really do at this point was hope that Rob wouldn't mind being permanently on the same line as him. "Okay."

"Then it's probably time for you to get some rest," Herb told him, glancing pointedly at the door in a way that made it obvious their conversation was over. "Tomorrow will be just as tiring as today."

"Off to rest now," said Mark, as he left the room, thinking that the command to rest would be one he wouldn't have too much trouble obeying. If there was one way to adjust quickly to a time change, it was to exhaust yourself so thoroughly during the day time wherever you were that you would simply have to fall asleep whenever night finally fell.

He hurried down the hall, a spring in his step for the first time that day, because he wasn't getting cut, and Herb did want him on the team, after all. As soon as he entered his hotel room, Rob looked up from icing his legs to demand nervously, "What did Herb say?"

"He said he's counting on me to be a player and a leader on this team." Mark beamed, discovering that these words only seemed truly real to him now that he was repeating them to his roommate. Until then, they had felt more like a fantasy conversation he had invented to console himself as he was kicked off the Olympic team. "He doesn't care that my father is his biggest enemy as a coach. He still wants me on the team."

"I knew it!" exclaimed Rob, a broad beam replacing his furrowed forehead. Then, before Mark could process what was happening, Rob had climbed out of the bucket and launched himself across the room to wrap Mark in a tight embrace. "I knew he wasn't about to cut you!"

"You seem awfully relieved for someone who knew I wasn't going to get the ax," teased Mark, smirking.

"Rubbish," Rob answered smoothly, releasing Mark. "This is my trademark look of smug satisfaction, so I have no idea how you could confuse it with an expression of relief."

"Ah, well, we might not be able to read each other's faces yet." Mark punched Rob's shoulder lightly. "But at least we have the awkward linemate hug down pat. That will be useful whenever one of us scores, because Herb wants us on the same line—the starting line."

"That's neat." Rob retaliated by nudging Mark in the ribs. "We could create a lot of great opportunities for each other at least as long as Herb wants to keep us together, which could be for five days, five weeks, or five months."

"You don't mind that he didn't ask your opinion?" Mark bit his lip.

"I don't expect him to ask my opinion about anything." Rob shrugged. "At the U, he almost never asked us about what we were thinking or feeling, because he preferred to treat us like we had the IQ of particularly thick cans of mayonnaise. I still remember that one time when he thought that Phil Verchota wasn't paying close enough attention to one of his diagrams that he was explaining for the umpteenth time, and he asked Phil what he thought about the plans."

"Oh, this story has all the signs of a happy ending," remarked Mark dryly, because Verchota might have appeared like a typical brute whose brain would never be his biggest muscle, but, with the Minnesota boys, looks were almost always deceiving, and Phil happened to be a very decorated student who didn't take aspersions on his intelligence in a favorable light.

"It wasn't that bad, and it was actually kind of funny even when it occurred." Rob snickered, and then resumed, "Anyway, Phil was so startled by this deep question that the only incisive response he could come up with was that he didn't know. Herb wasn't pleased, and he demanded what Phil meant by saying he didn't know. Phil got all testy back, saying Herb hadn't asked him anything in three years, so he didn't know."

"Saucy." Mark chuckled appreciatively. "Bet Herb blew a major artery at that."

"Herb's fair, and he realized that Phil had a good point, so he just went on talking about his diagram." Rob grinned. "Mind you, I wouldn't have said what Phil did if I were in his shoes. I would have just given a safe non-answer about the plays looking like they could open up options, because Herb _loves _options."

"Well, I love the fact that you and I will be creating options for each other at Lake Placid." Mark smiled. "That's pretty awesome."

"It's a long way from Norway to Lake Placid," grumbled Rob, sinking back onto his bed. "Let's not fly ahead of ourselves, Mark."

"I know that you, being all conscientious, will have our long and short term goals written in your daily planner by this time tomorrow." Mark collapsed onto his bed and wondered if he would have the energy necessary to flip off the lights in a few moments. "So, I figured I should be the irresponsible free spirit on our line."


End file.
